


Doleo

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Grief/Mourning, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: EndgameAU. Tony and Steve go to Vormir. Tony does not come back.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 141





	Doleo

**Author's Note:**

> "I hurt."  
> "I suffer."  
> "I grieve."
> 
>  _Doleo_ contains: (i) major character death, (ii) moderately explicit language, (iii) mentions of self-sacrificial ideation (eg "it should have been me"), and (iv) a character in mourning. This is a companion piece to my other _Endgame_ "What If?" piece, _Indolesco._ They are completely separate and can be read independently; they are alike in theming only.
> 
> Read on and enjoy.  
> -Cap'n Panda

Gloves scraping over stone, Steve crawled towards the edge of the rock shelf. 

In a foggy, absentminded way, he knew that the Red Skull lingered at his back. How simple would it be for one last blow to propel him over the edge, to send him to the dead in eternity? Yet approaching in inches, he felt no fear. He was not sure he was capable, even slightly, of experiencing fear again.

Statically empty, he leaned closer to the void. A cool wind tugged at the edges of his suit, drawing him closer. He gripped the ground, even though it had no earthen roots, refusing to be caught off-guard. The whole thing felt unstable, precipitous, offering nothing to grasp, nothing to hold. He breathed knife-like through his mouth and nose to steady himself, but his breaths turned harsh and short, leaving him unstable, in pain. Desperation propelled him to act, and in one lunging motion, he lurched forward, needing to catch a glimpse of Hades far below. 

His vision was astonishingly acute: he could carve lines in solid darkness, make out the liquid reflection of glossy eyes in jet-black rooms, and detect the like-with-like intersections of ocean black waves and stellar blue skies with scarcely any difficulty. Thus, he had no trouble, on a mechanical level, spotting the sprawled figure lying a thousand feet below him. Processing what he saw—accepting it as reality—was another matter altogether.

There was, he thought numbly, a certain indecency to the pose—sprawled like a broken toy, yearning to be collected and carried home. To be resuscitated. To be revived. He found himself inching closer to the edge, nearly over it, already calculating in some emotionless corner of his mind how he might descend the jagged cliff to the base. It would take time, but he was patient. So long as he shut off everything, everything whatsoever, then it became easy to focus only on the tiny crackles of stone under his fingertips. As he danced with his own demise, he eased closer and closer to the edge, and finally began to slide over it.

The crackling was loud enough that it seemed to stab into his consciousness, rattling him to sharper awareness, reminding him suddenly and unforgivably that he was on Vormir, that he was on a mission, that he needed to retrieve the Soul Stone, and that, a thousand feet below him, there was a thought he could not think about. Blanketing himself in that metronome, a thought he could not think about, he let himself slip back into a dark quiet madness, focusing instead on shifting his weight, on hugging the dark dead mountain, and descending towards the plains.

Climbing downwards, hand-under-hand, trembling like a rookie in training, he made long work of it. He took his time. He would do it right—haste was not possible. He hated every second of the journey, holding his breath for long spells before gasping in gray chalk. The temperature dropped steadily, until he trembled violently near the very edge. He wanted to slow down, to stop, to draw it out suddenly, loathe to reach his destination. He couldn’t bear to turn around, to confront what he would find. He experienced a sudden desperate terror, a need to climb back upwards, as fast as he could, and an equal and inexorable downward pressure, an insistence that he continue his journey.

He never paused. He simply descended in silence, until at last, he planted his feet on the dark primordial plains of Vormir.

An incongruously warm breeze wafted across the landscape, cavorting around him, suffusing him. Numbness dissolved; raw feeling returned. He felt each breath in his chest, each pump of his beating heart, all of it stunningly real, dangerously palpable. Still facing the wall, he resisted the strong buffet of the wind as it urged him to turn around. He could not face it, dared not address irreconcilable reality. Arrested in place, he lingered, unable to move, for several unceasing moments.

They were, perhaps, the last peaceful moments he enjoyed. The last moments when the gray fog continued to overshadow the pounding of his heart and the sharp tang of each breath before he released the rock and turned to face what he had come to find.

One of the ugliest feelings in the human experience was the shapeless scream. Each breath—short, sharp, stabbed, stuck in his throat, stuck in his chest—was its own condemnation of what clawed irrepressibly upwards, a lowing cry creaking in his sternum, barely voiced at all, too thin to free itself from the crushing hold of his own ribcage. Lungs deflated, chest crushed, all of it deprived by his helpless staccato breath, there was nothing allotted for the train wreck in his soul, nothing spared for his grief. He was left choking on it, animal noises crushed out before they could ever become something meaningful to the universe, unable to cry out despite being given lungs to do so.

Mouth twisted downwards in anguish, jaw hinged open to unleash the pain to send it anywhere other than the cavity in his chest bleeding red with emotion, he staggered forward. He stumbled towards the shapeless, unmoving, unflinching figure on the rocks, nearly the same size as he, now that he was close enough, no longer a tiny figure, a cold contemplation, a thought experiment, but an undeniable element of his immediate world. Up close, it became a thing he was drawing painfully near. A thing he could not begin to summarize, could not hope to name. A thing that was not a thing, and he knew it, with every jagged breath, with every stumbling step, that it was not a thing at all, was not an object, nor an acceptable aspect of existence at all, but—

 _Tony_.

The noise in his chest swelled. He came within three feet of it, of—

 _Tony_.

Dropping to his knees, he reached out, but he could not make himself touch, not at first, trembling fingers gliding over the familiar and unfamiliar lines, bent in strange ways. Coming to rest partially on his side, Tony reposed not in a way that Steve was used to, and Steve wanted—oh, he wanted to fix it, more than he wanted his next breath, and so on his knees he moved closer, and it was his knees that connected first, with the cold unyielding side, already stiffening with rigor mortis.

It was that moment, knees pressing against not the soft giving warmth of a human body but the hardening tissues of a corpse that Steve felt something inside him, something concrete and joyful and irreplaceable, fracture, shatter down the middle, hinge for a moment and then break loose. He grasped, silently and helplessly, without superstition or hope, for the edges of—

 _Tony_.

His jacket was cooling without a human heart to pump warmth through the body underneath. The warm breeze was not enough, with the cold stone underlying. Gathering him, like an animal in desperate silent thoughtless instinct-driven movements, Steve pressed him in his stiffening form up against his own sturdy chest, firmer than Tony’s in life but softer than Tony’s in death, his beating heart utterly, utterly damning against the silence issuing from the other side.

It made no sense, no sense, no sense at all. Steve clung to him, hoping against hope that he would feel a matching beat. He knelt on the plains and rocked unconsciously with Tony in his arms—a whine issuing continuously from his throat, a scream that could not gain breath straining to gain traction, regardless—and longed to give him his own beating breath, his own gasping heart. Anything was better than the stillness, the silence, the cold in his arms.

 _It should’ve been me_.

It was the only thought that would cohere, the only emotion that would rationalize itself from the ether of soundless static. _It should’ve been me_ , and he sobbed, holding onto him, tears carving cold tracks down his cheeks as he huddled over Tony’s icy body, needing to keep it warm, needing to give some of his life into the twitching underground residual sparks of _maybe, maybe, maybe_ that his desperate, bleating, childish animal needed, begged, gasped to believe.

 _Maybe_.

He couldn’t feel it: not the most basic twitch of life, but he gasped, he begged, he bleated and believed, and he could do nothing other than _believe_ that it would be _okay_ because the alternative would kill him. It would simply kill him, it had to, _it had to_. He could not endure the alternative: that he would simply _go on_ , and Tony Stark would not. 

Yet that was—that was _reality_ , that was what he had to _live with_. Tony Stark was gone, and he would never, ever, ever inhabit the same living space as Steve Rogers again. He would never, ever, ever breathe the same air or stand in the same room or spare a twinkle in his eye as Steve happened to see an idea be born because Tony Stark existed in the same universe. He would never again _give_ to it, not his smile nor laughter nor his simple enduring companionship. 

Everything, from the most complex display of ingenuity to the basest baseline breath, had been converted to the custodial past tense of the universe, suddenly and utterly inaccessible to the living. All of it would _never happen again_ , and Steve cried out, even longer and louder than before. It was worse than a scream, leaving furrowed wounds behind, places for bleeding red to salt, for more reminders to carve and bleed.

Abruptly, it was not everything missing at once, but just the price of one memory: of Tony curled up against him as Steve sat in his flight seat, breathing soft against him as Steve, trying not to disturb him at all, gathered a blanket and wrapped it around him, aware that it was a long, long flight home and he was grateful to be beside him, grateful that of all the people on the Quinjet, _he_ was chosen as Tony Stark’s sleeping place, even though he was quiet and uninteresting next to people like Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, who were famous intelligence operatives; or Dr. Banner, who was clearly Tony’s intellectual equal; or even Thor, the future King of Asgard, as fascinating a conversationalist if ever there was one. He was the oddity from the ice, the standout, the loner, and often, he and Tony met like opposing forces, cutting teeth on cloth before settling down. To say he was startled from his own meditative doze when he felt the weight beside him was an understatement, yet he held still, wanting to savor it. He listened to Tony’s breathing even out, listened to him be, wanting him to _be_ forever. When he was confident Tony was asleep, he gathered the blanket closer, wanting him to be more comfortable, so that he might be happy there.

In the present, Steve was barely aware of rocking Tony in his arms, scarcely noticed the way he moved on the barren rocks, but he felt the way Tony _wasn’t_ moving, the coldness and stiffness that were ash in his mouth, reminders so visceral he wanted to drop Tony in a way he never would have done for the man in life. He had always been repulsed by the dead—few people were immune to the shocking contrast of _living_ versus _deceased_ , of the rapid transformation of something as simple as absent breath and stiffening muscle—yet he could not, under any circumstances whatsoever, allow harm to come to Tony. Not when Tony had—he swallowed bile, swallowed what felt like jagged glass, because Tony had jumped to save _him_.

Tony had jumped because the only way to obtain the Soul Stone was for one of them to die.

He was aware, in a numb, unnecessary corner of his mind, that he wasn’t doing a very good job at following through with the mission, that Tony was dead and gone and he needed to focus on the living, on what Tony had died _for_. Tony’s death was meaningless if he didn’t get the Stone and return to the others and defeat Thanos. If he lost sight of that for even one second, if he focused only on—

He swallowed, and swallowed, and hugged Tony tighter, and wept, not caring about any of it, not moving except to curl tighter around Tony’s body, because he didn’t want to face Thanos. He didn’t want to find the Stone. Didn’t care that Tony, who had always been brave—braver than Steve had accused him of ever not-being—had died so that he might obtain it. _Dying wish_ , whispered a voice, and he sobbed, sobbing harder and harder until it hurt, until it punched out of him, trying to calm down so he wouldn’t disturb _Tony_ so much. He huddled around him, desperate to convey warmth.

Another memory, unbidden, painted its way across his mind’s eye, of Tony in the compound in the wee hours of the morning, looking scared and alone. He spooked when he noticed Steve in the corner, looking out the window, thinking about tomorrow. Tony looked briefly like he might make a snide remark, say something to distract from his own vulnerability, to dissuade the conversation from the fact that he was clearly rattled and it was the middle of the night, but instead he simply cleared his throat and remarked, _You’re up early_ , and Steve replied:

 _I don’t sleep much_.

Tony nodded jerkily, pacing the floor, looking anxious and unhappy, and Steve couldn’t say what nudged him to do it, but he stood, grateful that he took it slow when Tony stiffened visibly. He resumed pacing, even more agitated, moving away, putting distance between them. Steve was prepared to let it go, almost—but not quite—relieved to not have to confront what he had been _prepared_ to do, that the offer was in his hand at all, when, suddenly, Tony swept across the floor, and burrowed into his arms, like he needed to be there. He hugged tightly, not at all like Steve had imagined Tony Stark would hug, the limp showman embrace that would leave him free to vanish before he could be caged in. No—he grasped, planting himself and winding his arms around Steve and holding onto him like a lighthouse in a storm, projecting a stunning amount of heat, and Steve realized it was the arc reactor projecting most of it, and Tony’s shaking projecting the rest.

Never one to leave someone out in the cold—let alone Tony, never Tony—he wrapped his own arms around him, thankful forever that he was fast enough to do so before Tony skittered off in anxious disarray, and hugged him back warmly, tucking his cheek against his head until he felt the shivering settle down, and cease. And it was like a shivering in his own soul settled down, and ceased, as he stood there in the middle of the dark room, aware that he was not alone, either.

No man was an island. No man had to be.

No man had to be, he hiccuped, tenderly, almost unwarrantedly stroking Tony’s hair back, the mat of blood oddly unaffecting even as it stuck to his fingers. His cold, stiff posture was nearly more than Steve could bear, yet the direct evidence of the trauma that had killed him, the _reason_ he wasn’t stirring in his arms, scarcely touched him. It was beyond his cognitive processing, as removed from the present as the future thought of _dinner_.

Steve yearned suddenly to make a good meal for him, something he would like, something light before he sent him away for an easy night, because they’d been pulling long hours, they needed a break, hunting Thanos was important but taking care of themselves, staying in fighting shape, _that_ was important, too. Steve was a super-soldier, bred to be resilient to the bone, capable of going three weeks without a drop of sleep, but Tony needed sleep, he needed more than two hours a night, needed a chance to be left alone and not needed so desperately by the world, it was killing him, it was simply killing him, and Steve needed to give him a chance to be by himself, just for a little while, so he could rest, so he could recuperate. Tonight, Steve would let him be alone. Tonight, he would make him a good meal, make sure he had time to himself, no interruptions. Thanos could wait. Tony needed this.

The tears were tacky on his face, empty promises like a stone lodged deep in his throat, but he didn’t care that it made no sense. Tony needed it. Huddling closer, holding onto him, utterly uncaring that he was gone and never coming back and never _needing_ anything, least of all Steve Rogers’ attention or compassion or belated concern, couldn’t have cared a lick for him in life, _could you_?

He flinched, longed to press his face against Tony’s chest, terrified of what he would find, what he wouldn’t—broken bones, an unbeating heart.

He huddled but did not press. He lingered, agonized, and did not move, could not move, shaking and crying and wanting more than anything to give Tony Stark what he deserved, a proper night’s rest, a moment to himself, another grand idea, and freedom from the oppressive terror that Thanos had cast over their lives.

_Never again._

It didn’t matter, Steve thought numbly, what happened with Thanos. Tony Stark would not reap the rewards—or the punishment. There was every chance without him that success was impossible, for all Tony’s compassionate intent—surely, surely, they could not succeed without his titanic will, his monumental intellect. _We need you_ , he thought, and cast the thought aside nearly as quickly, hastening to amend, emphatically, sincerely, a whisper of breath:

“I need you.”

Aloud, spoken into the doldrums of Vormir where no living souls dwelled, it felt like the emptiest love letter, a closed promise— _I will love you to the end of your life_ , spoken to a headstone. There was no answer, no voice on the other side, no assurance:

 _I’m right here. I’m here. We’re going to get through this_.

Tony said nothing. Tony did not move.

Tony—

Tony was gone. And Steve looked down at him, looked down at eyes, alive in life, matte black in death, hauntingly empty. He thought, _Please look at me_. He gathered in one trembling arm Tony’s entire body, cradling him in the curve of his own body, against his own sturdy chest, and used his free hand to brush his eyelids shut. He hated doing it, hated doing it _to_ Tony, forcing him to shut his eyes, especially when all he wanted was to implore him, _Look at me, Tony_. All he wanted was to see bright brown eyes affix on him, burnished and full of life.

Instead, he granted him the dignity of the deceased, of no longer staring into nothing but _he could be sleeping_. The tears tracked silently down his own cheeks. He felt numb, empty, senseless, like every drop of warmth had been bled out of him, like there was nowhere to go when Tony stopped needing him. He needed a blanket—Tony was cold, Tony _needed_ a blanket, and with his heart, it was good for him to stay warm, to relieve some of the circulatory pressure; Steve could relate to that, to the bitter discomfort of a bad heart, and the simple pleasure of a good blanket—but he only had the jacket on his back, so with great care, he held Tony in one arm and unzipped the jacket with the other, and carefully, carefully draped it around him. Warmed by his own body, tucked tenderly around Tony’s torso, it granted no illusion of life—Tony’s chest did not rise and fall, nor did he suddenly gasp for breath or open those same eyelids that Steve had closed for him—but it did, in some small, infinitesimal way, grant Steve peace.

 _I’m here_.

He gathered Tony back into his arms. With slow, shuffling movements, he stood, holding him tight to his chest.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he became deeply, unsettlingly aware of a second presence. 

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

Facing the endless Vormic plains, holding Tony Stark’s unmoving body, Steve listened to Johann Schmidt proclaim at his back: “You cannot take that with you.”

 _I don’t want to_.

 _I don’t want to go anywhere_.

Swallowing, he tried to maintain some semblance of composure, but he could hear how loud his own breath was, how unsteady he sounded. _I’m not leaving him. I’m not going anywhere. This isn’t what I want._

 _Keep the Stone. I just want him_.

“It’s pitiful. To regret.” Schmidt’s voice lacked sympathy, even hatred, nearly empty of human emotion. There was only cutting truth, and he sawed to the heart of the matter as he added calmly, “You know, we don’t get second chances. We only face the future with eyes wide open. You of all people should know that.”

 _Leave me_.

He heard a rustling noise, a cape whispering over stones. Terror paralyzed him. “Would that I could trade his life for yours,” the Red Skull mused. “Although,” he added, standing near enough, Steve felt, that he could reach out and grasp Steve’s shoulder from behind, “this seems just in its own way. Pain is something only the living can experience.” Then, dropping his voice, he warned, “I cannot stay here. And neither can you. Let him go. Then we may both be on our way.”

 _I don’t want to_.

Again, Steve did not move. A hot hand, almost scalding in comparison to the cold body in his arms and the lukewarm breath of Vormir’s lifeless tectonics, made his heart pound as it curled around his left shoulder. “I will make you,” Schmidt warned, and Steve knew he meant it, knew he was offering a dignified out, a way for him to leave on his own terms. _Let him go._

_Let me go._

_It’s okay._

He couldn’t, and pain slotted deep and knife-like into his shoulder, paralyzing it, his grip slackening perilously. He barely compensated, forced to his knees or to lose Tony altogether. “Captain,” the Red Skull whispered, almost a sneer, and he felt a firm kick to the back of his right shoulder before the same searing quality paralyzed him. 

Panic clutched his throat as he crumpled over Tony, folding over him with ragdoll arms, unable to curl his fingers. Unable to hold onto him properly, he stayed bowed over him, howling in rage as he felt a hand grasp the back of his shirt, hauling him away. A rush of wind swept in and pinned him up against the rock wall, preventing him from drawing close again. The Red Skull stated calmly, “Always were a rebel, weren’t you?” Ignoring Tony, he walked off into the plains, vanishing into a dust storm as if he never was.

Blinking, Steve tried to move, but he could not get leverage without use of his arms. An anguished little cry arose from his throat as he looked at Tony, folded almost peacefully on his side. _No, no, no, no, no_. He couldn’t leave him, he couldn’t—

He fell to his knees, knee-walking clumsily, shuffling forward, limp fingers dragging against the rocks. The dust storm was getting closer, but he didn’t care, didn’t care what it meant, what it entailed, that they had done what they had come to do on Vormir, as he crumpled over Tony’s body, making sure to cover his head.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, voice a desperate rasp, needing him to know. It didn’t matter that Tony couldn’t hear him, wasn’t listening to him, would never listen to him again. Steve could hear him. He could listen to himself speak the words into existence, the words he’d failed to actualize as Tony, in all his brave terrible wonder, launched himself off the edge of that cliff. “ _I’ve got you_ , I’m not gonna let you go.” 

Desperately aware that the whole point of the endeavor was to let him go, was to _fail_ to protect him, to lose, he bowed over Tony as the winds grew, pelting him, clawing at him, demanding he acknowledge their existence. “Shh,” he quelled, like Tony needed it, to know that they were okay, that they were fine. “Shh, shh. S’okay.” He shut his own eyes tightly to keep out the grainy stony particles, wished he could bow more completely over Tony, shelter him fully from the storm. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m—”

In a breath, a single cosmic thunderclap, he was there and then he was knee-deep in a long expanse of still water.

Panic seized him, and he lurched upright, staggering violently, arms pinwheeling a little as he splashed warm water everywhere, the only movement in any direction, the odd inky-black water making him deeply uneasy. He noticed, with a jolt of revelation, that the pain in his arms was gone. 

He whirled around, suddenly desperate to find, to reclaim, to _hold_ —

But no matter where he looked—gulping, gasping, shaking with panic and terror and dread—he could not find Tony, nor trace of the cliff, nor any sign of the terrible Vormir.

In his right hand, he felt the jagged edges of a stone. Shutting his eyes fiercely, denying its existence with every fiber of his being, he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, and yearned suddenly and honestly to fling himself into the waters and die, to drown for seventy years and never wake up, even as he forced himself to open his eyes, to open his palm, trembling violently, and stare at the golden glowing Stone.

Gold.

Of course it was gold, he thought, wrung dry of tears, wrung dry of everything that wasn’t Tony Stark, yearning with more than he had ever wanted to draw breath to curl his arms around him, even if he was cold and stiff and unmoving, just for the hope of keeping him warm.

He knelt in the waters, still clutching the Stone, somehow, the last trace of Tony Stark in the universe, and vowed, _I’ll find you. I’ll find you_.

It made no sense—he was gone, completely, had given himself up, entirely, for the task, knowing utterly that he would die for this Stone, for this search, because that was what _half the universe_ meant to him, what a _hero_ he was—but Steve Rogers _resolved_ , and he repeated, again and again, _I’ll find you. I’ll find you_.

Holding onto the Stone, bringing it to his throat, he thought, _I’ve got you. I’ve got you_.

Kneeling in the dark waters, alone in the universe, he clutched that tiny stone, the last remnant of Tony Stark left to him, and braved the idea of finding him again.

* * *

“Am I in trouble?”

Although the words were spoken in a lighthearted manner, they were not enough to press back the sudden tears that burned in Steve’s eyelids, that choked in his throat as he stood at the edge of the kitchen. He saw emotions flit rapidly across Tony’s expression as he took in Steve’s state—surprise, bewilderment, alarm, vague horror, upset, and finally sympathy—before he retracted a hand from the cookie jar, the literal _cookie jar_ , and stepped around the counter, approaching Steve slowly. “Hey, big guy,” he began. “What’s going on? Bad, uh, dream?” He twitched a hand, scratching the back of his neck in idle discomfort, like he wasn’t sure he was entitled to pry that deeply into Steve’s personal affairs, but it was nearly three in the morning, Steve did look a state, and he supposed it was only fair for him to pry, at least a little.

Rather than answer aloud, afraid he might very well start sobbing if he opened his mouth, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Tony, hugging him as tightly as he dared, pushing a startled breath out of Tony. Immediately, life signs reminded him of everything worthwhile to this endeavor—pressed up against him, he could feel Tony’s fast-beating heart, his surprised shallow breaths, his perennial warmth, his soft hands finally settling cautiously around Steve’s mid-back. “Cap?” Tony began, cautious but _there_ , alive, liquid with warmth and melting into the embrace as he realized, slowly but surely, that Steve wasn’t there to hurt him, _never, never, never_. “Easy, big guy,” he repeated, more calmly, thumb sweeping back and forth over the tiniest patch of skin, a living gesture, a thing he could not do when he was dead on the ground. “I’m, uh—here. Full-service cuddle buddy, at your full service.” A nervous silent almost-chuckle rippled across his chest, a sound Steve only noticed because he felt it against his own chest. He ached with sudden affection, with warmth, with _hope_ , because Tony was _alive_ , Tony was _well_ , Tony was _here_ , and—

“Tony,” he said aloud, and then, savoring it, he repeated, “oh, Tony. Tony.”

“Hey,” Tony said, not chiding, just reminding, voice pitched differently, no longer spitfire teasing but—slower. Quieter. “Are you okay?”

“Missed you,” Steve admitted, too honest, too raw, too _much_ , there would be a time to explain, so _much_ to explain, but at least Tony knew the gist of time travel, that would help, right? He’d understand, at least, that Steve wasn’t a monster for using it for selfish means, for, _I needed to see you, I needed you, I needed you_ , and holding onto him, he knew that he was never gonna let him go again. “Are you okay?” he retorted fervently, pulling back so he could look at Tony, holding his shoulders in both hands, looking at golden brown eyes seriously, as brilliant as an eclipse, flashing with insight, with mirth, with intrigue.

“Me?” Gaze flicking back and forth briefly, discerning, Tony finally smiled a little and added, “I’m two cookies shy of _okay_ , but I’m getting there.” Reaching up to pinch Steve’s nose briefly, an almost fond gesture, he added, “Maybe you can tell me what’s up after I’ve gotten there.”

“Missed you,” Steve repeated, and Tony’s expression softened.

“Been, what, five hours?” Tony said, not chiding, just reflecting, and nodding towards the cookie jar. “C’mon. Let’s talk.” Looking him up and down once, he added seriously, “You look like a guy that could use a cookie.”

Swallowing thickly, Steve said, “I just—” Tony waited, not moving towards the jar, eyes bright with interest, patience, and the compassion there was nearly enough to close up Steve’s throat, make it impossible to finish his statement altogether. “I love you,” he said, helplessly.

Tony blinked several times in quick succession, make a little punched out noise, and finally reached up to rub his eyes with both hands. Then, lowering his hands, he added, almost comically, “Oh.” Reaching up to pinch Steve’s nose again, he cupped his face like he was trying to get a read on his facial features, then stepped back and blinked before asking, “Who are you and what have you done with Steve Rogers?”

Aching, so apologetic it physically hurt, Steve said, “I’m sorry.”

Again, the good-natured lightness vanished, replaced by something softer as Tony added, “No, it—look.” He reached out, and Steve blinked in helpless wonder as he took Steve’s hand in his own, his fingers incredibly warm, smooth and dexterous, amazingly alive. “It’s been a hell of a week, all right? I—I’m dreaming. This is a dream. So, I’m going to enjoy it.”

Aching with fondness, Steve said, “It’s not a dream.”

Tony made a noncommittal noise and squeezed his hand, adding with a second noncommittal noise, “Debatable.” Then: “Cookies first. Plausibility of dreams second.” He gave his hand a tug and released it, moving towards the jar and adding, “You’re awfully substantial for a dream, but—well. What’s this about?”

Watching him, drinking in his realness, Steve couldn’t respond at first, enchanted by the simple charm of him fishing out a small cookie—one of Natasha’s chocolate chip cookies that, on penalty of death, she would not share the recipe for; no wonder he was sneaking around in the kitchen, Steve thought, with helpless affection—and finally admitting softly, “It’s a long story.”

“Got time,” Tony added, chewing luxuriously, holding out a cookie to him. “Hm?”

Accepting it, warm fingertips brushing against his own, Steve sighed, folding Tony—who went with only the softest noise of noncommittal acquiescence—into his arms and saying, “I’m from the future.”

“Oh,” Tony said. A beat, and then, after another bite: “Oh. Shit.”

“S’okay.” 

“Obviously,” Tony muttered, still chewing on his cookie. “Yes, you’re here because it’s all peachy-keen. Cap—Steve. This is what I mean by _the first rule of time travel is_ —” Then, stroking his free hand up one of Steve’s arms unexpectedly, cutting off his own quiet tirade, he added, “You know what? What’s done is done. Guess we’ll do it better this time, right? Your brain, my brawn?”

An amused little huff slipped past Steve despite himself. “I think it’s the other way around, Tony.”

“Mm, you haven’t seen me at the gym,” Tony reminded, fishing out a second cookie. Steve took the chance to pop his own cookie in his mouth whole, and it was heaven. Pure, simple heaven. Between the warmth of flavors in his mouth and Tony in his arms, he was suddenly sure that it didn’t matter if he died in the cold depths of Vormir or Thanos took over the universe or they won—come hell or high water, these precious moments, these were what he would fight for. “Be kicking Thor’s ass before you know it,” Tony added, and Steve couldn’t help a little laugh, loving him so much it hurt, loving the little smile he got more than his own life.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and he enjoyed the shared joy, the shared darkness, the shared quiet soft moment. “Yeah, you will.”

Leaning into him, against him, finishing off his second cookie, Tony breathed there for a moment, reposing in quiet agreement, before saying, more to his shirt than him, “You know, on the off chance that I’m dreaming—and there are no consequences—I do love you. You know. Most days. When you leave me cookies. If you don’t, I love you less.”

Heart thumping hard in his chest, yearning to earn it, to be worth it, Steve said simply, “Leave you all the cookies you want, Tony.”

“S’what I like to hear,” Tony murmured, a smile twitching at his lips as he went for a third before adding, “it’s that giddy optimism, you know? You gotta hang onto that. I love that, I need that. This shit, it’s—we need it, Cap. Steve.”

Nodding a little, Steve said seriously, “We can do this, Tony.”

Gravely, Tony offered him another cookie and agreed, “Yes, we can, Steve.”

And for once, Steve believed him—not merely to Vormir, to the worst-case scenario, to the ends of the Earth, but to beyond. To a life with him, _after_ Thanos.


End file.
